This is the fourth chapter of Diabolical Ascension, the saga of Zeraga Baal'khal, the Doomfire. Discretion is advised due to graphic content.
The third chapter, The Fangs of Azazel, can be found here:
The first chapter, Awakening, can be found here: https://talesofvalorandwoe.wixsite.com/zeragabaalkhal/post/diabolical-ascension-i-awakening
Image credits (in order of appearance): Petr Joura
“We may have to go a different way, master,” Zamyyr said.
Zeraga gave only silence. Nine cycles had passed since the battle with Baal-Kephor and the Fangs of Azazel, and Zeraga and Zamyyr had been flying ever since; they had no need for food, water, or rest as mortals did. This was the first time they had stopped.
The hoodoos, gorges, and hills before them formed an undulating ocean of rust-red and ochre rock, and the tenebrous, writhing form of the River Styx was at the horizon, barely visible, appearing like a stray stroke of ink on parchment. Far to the left was a mountain range, as cracked and jagged as the rest of the blasted landscape. On the right, many keeps were scattered about the earth like an abandoned set of gambling dice that had caused one too many losses. All around roamed packs of damned souls, etiolated and oblivious, prowling the badlands in mindless attempts at predation.
At the center of it all lay the multi-mile long skeleton of a behemoth that had undoubtedly died many thousands of years ago; the skeleton was the length of Zeraga’s forearm even at his current distance. About the skeleton were many tents and banners, each one a tiny speck of color, and the surrounding earthworks were nigh-indistinguishable from the rest of the landscape. Many groups of figures moved about the encampment in ordered channels. Above it all circled great, winged creatures that seemed to be either dragons or wyverns.
“Yes,” Zeraga finally conceded, “we may have to go a different way.” He didn’t like the notion of confronting a whole legion of devils with only Zamyyr at his side.
What happened to “Let our foes come. Hellscythe will gladly drink their souls?” the weapon asked sardonically.
I am not one for suicide. Zeraga replied.
It would not be suicide. Think of all the power I will have after slaying only a few of them… Hellscythe sent the first tendrils of the crimson pall slithering into Zeraga’s mind. Besides, I have divined that those are indeed the Fangs of Azazel. Baal-Kephor will surely be among them. Don’t you desire to punish him for his cowardice?
Zeraga drove back the crimson mists. That will come, and you will have your souls. Of this, I assure you.
I want them now. A bounty of slaughter has been presented to us, and I will not be denied! Hellscythe sent a tide of sanguine wrath surging into Zeraga’s mind.
The Doomfire erected a psychic wall, fighting to keep his rational mind from being unraveled by the tide of hatred. Strands of red still slipped through, each one a furious, bloodthirsty specter that howled within his mind. Wielding his will like a cudgel, Zeraga beat the specters down, not stopping until lucidity returned.
“Did Hellscythe disagree with my suggestion?” Zamyyr asked.
“Yes,” Zeraga replied, “but I do not. Where do you suggest we go?”
“To the mountains.” Zamyyr gestured toward them with one of his Axxcrudyr. “There we will be hidden from view, and we can likely find passage into tunnels which will lead us to the River Styx unseen.”
“A sound plan.”
* * *
Above the encampment, one of the wyverns and the Fang of Azazel who rode it paused to watch the departure of a pair of tiny, winged figures off in the distance, wondering why they were no longer flying closer. Were they Zeraga Baal’khal and Zamyyr Ôth as the rumors about the camp held? Should the siting be reported to Yûgrazael?
The Fang shook his head. It could very well have been the sun playing tricks on him, and Yûgrazael was known to have quite the temper when he was needlessly disturbed. Spurring his wyvern, the Fang continued his patrol, though he still couldn’t shake the uncertainty gnawing at his mind.
* * *
The mountains were now the majority of what Zeraga and Zamyyr could see; each one stabbed the sky and seemed nearly to pierce the sun itself. From slopes that were as jagged, cracked, and austere as the rest of Addaduros rose many different adobe citadels and redoubts. Mortars, ballistae, and other siege weapons stood next to the larger structures, but none of them were manned. No patrols could be seen about the citadels and redoubts, either.
“That’s odd,” Zeraga said as he and Zamyyr continued closer, “The mountains seem abandoned.”
“It could be that the inhabitants are gathered in the legion we saw,” Zamyyr suggested, though his face betrayed that he was just as perplexed as Zeraga.
“Only if the Fangs of Azazel are known to occupy these mountains, and why would they have left their war engines behind?”
“You know that those were the Fangs we saw? I couldn’t make out any banners or other heraldry.”
“Hellscythe told me, and I know it wasn’t lying because it was trying to force us into battle.”
Zamyyr gave a mirthless grin. “I cannot refute that reasoning; I have never seen Hellscythe’s bloodlust fail. Still, even though the Fangs of Azazel are normally based in Azaba’ar, it is reasonable that they have established auxiliary outposts. They are one of Azazel’s favored legions, and Azaba’ar cannot be everywhere at once. Look up and see; the city is nowhere to be found. Besides, if the whole might of the Fangs has been mustered specifically to hunt us, why would they need their war engines? We are but two devils.”
“I suppose. A well-placed mortar shot would end our lives quickly enough.”
Zamyyr laughed. “What do you say to going there, master?” He gestured toward a citadel that was about midway up the nearest mountain. Around it stood three mortars.
“That seems as good a place as any.”
Zeraga and Zamyyr flew toward the citadel, soon landing on the cliff upon which it and the surrounding mortars stood. The citadel was a featureless monolith of adobe save for the iron door at its base. The mortars were brutish iron behemoths that looked like gargoyles poised to pounce, and spiked iron wheels, each one as tall as Zeraga, were bolted to their sides. And still, no devils, no occupants at all, not even the damned, were anywhere to be found.
A chunk of lead formed in Zeraga’s gut. The mortars were not in disrepair, nor was the citadel. Where were the ones responsible for maintaining them?
Zeraga reached out to Hellscythe. Do you sense any others nearby?
Why would I tell you if I did? the weapon replied. You’ll know what to do if there are.
You’re not eager to pontificate about nearby souls to drink?
Hellscythe’s only response was a sardonic laugh.
Zeraga turned his focus on Zamyyr. “Into the citadel?”
“Wherever you go, I will follow,” the Crimson Dragon replied.
The two devils walked up to the citadel’s door. Zeraga pushed on it, and the door groaned as its locking mechanisms resisted him. Drawing upon his innate powers, hot knives coursed through the Doomfire’s veins as hellfire tendrils burst from two of his hands, entwining into blazing swords that he plunged into the iron door. Sparks flew and metal dripped as Zeraga cut a wide circle, kicking it in once it was complete. The iron disk fell back and landed with a resounding thud.
A circular room lay beyond. A staircase climbed up the left side, disappearing beyond the ceiling, and an iron hatch was embedded in the floor near the back of the room. All around lay the corpses of devils, painted in lacerations and covered in dried gore. Zeraga grimaced at the sight of it all.
“Well,” Zamyyr said, “we now know why we didn’t see any patrols. Shall we go in?”
“No.” Zeraga shook his head. “Let’s check inside one of the other bastions and see if it is like this too.”
“As you wish, master.”
The two devils spread their wings and leaped up, taking flight toward toward a redoubt higher on the mountain. The structure was merged with the mountain itself, as though the adobe keep were only half-complete and being devoured by its surroundings. Around it stood two ballistae and a catapult that were constructed in the same diabolical fashion as the mortars below.
As Zeraga looked upon it all, he felt the same gnawing uncertainty that he had felt at the tower. His gut told him that he would find a similar deathly tableau within the redoubt. Still, he descended, followed by Zamyyr; the two devils landed in front of the redoubt’s iron door. Upon it was emblazoned a pair of crossed swords with grinning skulls set upon their guards.
“Do you recognize that symbol?” Zeraga asked.
Zamyyr nodded. “It is the crest of the Swords of Addaduros, though I know nothing of importance beyond that. We of the Crimson Dragons never had any great dealings with them.”
Zeraga walked up to the door and plunged his hellfire swords into it, cutting a wide circle amid a storm of flying sparks and melting metal, kicking it in once he was done. The great disk fell back, landing cacophonously. Immediately afterward came a chorus of bestial, inhuman snarls.
From out of the keep loped a pack of pallid, rangy humanoid creatures. Their bones pressed against skin that was as parchment drawn taut; their maws were forests of needle-like teeth; their lurid red eyes burned with hateful hunger that went beyond merely instinctual predation. One of the ghouls leaped at Zeraga, and he cut it down with Hellscythe. Another ghoul soon fell to his hellfire swords. Zamyyr joined his master in dispatching their foes, his arms rising and falling as he swung his mighty weapons of orange metal and draconic bone. Soon, all that remained of the moribund creatures were corpses from which rose red mist that flowed into Hellscythe.
“How did those ghouls get here?” Zeraga asked.
“I’m not sure,” Zamyyr replied, “Perhaps a necromancer dwells within these mountains?”
“If that is the case, he had better hope that we do not find him.”
Zeraga and Zamyyr entered the redoubt. Past the corpses of the slaughtered ghouls lay those of devils, covered in rust colored gore. Broken weapons and mangled armor were strewn about the floor of the abattoir that had once been a barracks. A flight of stone stairs on each of the side walls led up past the ceiling, and there was a large iron hatch near the back of the room.
“More dead devils,” Zeraga noted dryly as he scanned the area for any other signs of movement.
“Yes,” Zamyyr replied, “but I don’t think it was the ghouls that killed them, not with how easily we cut them down.”
“Agreed. Those ghouls were little better than the rabble that make up the hordes of Ag’graaza.”
“Then it would follow that the ghouls came after the Swords of Addaduros were already dead.”
“Indeed. Let’s check the upper levels of the keep and see if we can find any more information.”
“A sound plan, master.”
The search of the redoubt yielded only an extension of the charnel place that the ground floor had become. More lacerated devils corpses mired in their own gore were strewn between shattered furniture, weapons, and armor, the long-settled remains of a vicious struggle.
It’s a shame that none of them were alive. Hellscythe said as Zeraga and Zamyyr returned to the ground floor. I would have liked to drink their souls.
Zeraga ignored the weapon; it had been fed recently enough. The Doomfire and his cohort proceeded toward the iron hatch. Gripping one of the handles, Zeraga pulled it open, the neglected hinges squealing as they were jolted. The rising of the hatch revealed a flight of stairs descending into the earth. Silently, Zeraga and Zamyyr walked down the stairs, their weapons brandished. Sinister shadows born from the light of Zeraga’s hellfire swords writhed upon the floor and ceiling.
The stairs eventually leveled out into a tunnel of rough, unworked stone as the redoubt yielded to the meat of the mountain, and they disappeared entirely as Zeraga and Zamyyr took winding right turn. The scent of stale blood followed, intensifying with every step.
After a few hundred feet, the tunnel opened into a cavern that was perhaps half the area of the redoubt’s rooms but just as high at the ceiling. A great eight-pointed star, savagely rendered in the sanguine fluids of the slain, sprawled across the floor, and devil corpses were heaped at the center, forming a mound of dead flesh as tall as Zamyyr. At each point of the star was set a skull. Beyond the macabre display stood the entrances to three more tunnels clustered together, each one perhaps a few feet away from the others.
Zamyyr’s jaw dropped. “The star of chaos in the Thirteen Hells?”
“I do not think that such a thing is as uncommon an occurrence as we would like it to be.” Zeraga gave a mirthless laugh. “After all, Hellscythe did summon a demon on me immediately after I found it, and that was Asmodeus’s test. I do wonder if Azazel knows about this, and, if so, why he hasn’t done anything.”
“I don’t think he knows; he wouldn’t tolerate this. Though from what I’ve heard, he doesn’t leave Azaba’ar much anymore.”
We could go and tell him. Hellscythe said. I’m sure that he would welcome the news. It might even make up for having killed nine of his Fangs and their kuurzanaals.
Zeraga ignored Hellscythe. “No matter. If he does not know that this is here, then he certainly won’t expect us to be here, either.”
The Doomfire entered the cavern, walking toward the tunnel entrances at the back. As he stepped over one of the points of the star of chaos, the whole of it began to glow with red light, and the corpses at the center began to writhe. Zeraga whirled around and unleashed a raging torrent of hellfire that set the corpses ablaze and turned the cavern as bright as the badlands outside. A chorus of demoniac laughter followed.
Though Zeraga’s hellfire ravaged the still-writhing corpses, their now-ashen forms did not decompose, and the mound of fire and death began to rise. It formed into a bestial, humanoid behemoth of ash and fire. The demon’s blazing countenance was a horrid amalgamation of wolf and goat, replete with black fangs and crowned by enormous horns. Large wings folded over the demon’s shoulders, and it wielded a scythe of kaleidoscopic chaos-flame.
“Finally…” the demon seethed, “It has been far too long since devils have entered this place.”
“And before this is over,” Zeraga replied, “You will have cause to regret your desire. Hellscythe, lend me your strength so that we might take this fiend’s soul for ourselves!”
Slaughter… the demoniac weapon snarled back.
New vigor flowed into the Doomfire as he allowed the blood-rage to overtake him, and he howled as he launched himself at the demon, swinging Hellscythe. The demon parried, multi-colored sparks fulgurating from its weapon as it hooked the blade of upon Hellscythe. The demon tried to pull Hellscythe from Zeraga’s grasp, but the devil tightened his grip as he drove his hellfire swords toward the demon’s chest. They slid harmlessly through the demon’s flesh of ash and fire; the fiend laughed sardonically.
Zamyyr hurtled forward and gored the demon’s side with his thick, curled horns, sending the demon staggering back as it roared in pain. Zeraga pulled on the demon’s scythe with Hellscythe, and the chaos-flame weapon gave a lungless screech as it was torn from its wielder’s grasp, unraveling amid a multi-colored explosion. Zamyyr pointed his Axxcrudyr forward, the runes upon the weapons glowing resplendently as they spat crackling bolts of baleful crimson lightning at the demon.
Conjuring a chaos-flame shield, the demon blocked as it recovered its footing; its form was drowned out for a moment amid the tide of bright light that came as Zamyyr’s lightning clashed with the newly formed weapon in mutual annihilation. Zeraga was already charging forward, screaming “Slaughter!” as he drew upon more of Hellscythe’s power and reveled in the thickening of the crimson pall. He closed the distance with Hellscythe raised high and powered the blade of the weapon toward the demon’s heart. The demon whirled out of the way as it began reciting an incantation.
Pillars of crimson mist sprouted from the star of chaos upon the floor, and shrieks and howls filled the room. Zeraga lunged and swung Hellscythe again; Zamyyr fired another pair of lightning bolts as he advanced. The onslaught of blade and sorcery savaged the demon, leaving a panoply of wounds upon its flesh that all wept tears of flame, tears of flame which Hellscythe transmuted into crimson mist, the ruby spear point atop its blade glowing brighter as it drank. Still, the demon continued to cast its spell as though it felt no pain at all; the incantation ended with a bone-chilling shriek that would have driven any mortal to insanity.
From the pillars of crimson mist leaped ghouls, pallid and hungry, that charged at Zeraga and Zamyyr. The Doomfire cut the undead down with his hellfire swords as he swung Hellscythe at the demon; Zamyyr felled the ghouls with wrathful strokes of his monolithic blades, now ensorcelled by hellfire; still more ghouls loped forth from the crimson mists. The demon dodged Zeraga’s strike as it stretched its right arm behind its shoulder and opened its claw. A new lungless howl was added to the pandemonium as a chaos-flame scythe manifested in the demon’s grasp. A cleave followed.
Zeraga beat back the weapon with Hellscythe, flowing into a retaliatory strike as he shattered the skulls of two more ghouls with his blazing swords. As Hellscythe collided once more with the demon’s own prismatic weapon, Zeraga willed his hellfire swords to disincorporate as he poured more power into them. The now-formless tides of hellfire seethed and crackled as they rose and formed a wall that separated him and the demon from Zamyyr and the ghouls.
The next moments were consumed in a furious exchange of blows as Zeraga and the demon dueled, neither combatant showing any signs of slowing; showers of multi-colored sparks coruscated all around them as their weapons slammed together again and again. Behind the hellfire wall, Zamyyr continued to butcher the ghouls, possessed by his own berserk fury. Crimson lightning joined the hellfire upon his weapons; each one was an elemental that raged with the same ferocity as its wielder.
“You should know by now that the ghouls will not stop coming,” the demon said as it swung its scythe at Zeraga. “The veil between Ag’graaza and the Thirteen Hells is thin; victory is beyond your grasp.”
The Doomfire’s only response was a scream of, “Slaughter!” as he blocked his foe’s attack and launched his own. Nine more times the two fiends’ scythes clashed, infernal metal grinding against solidified flame. As the demon recoiled to swing again, Zeraga lunged and sent Hellscythe’s blade arcing toward his foe’s torso. The demon roared in pain as Hellscythe bit into its ashen flesh, funneling the essence of its very soul into Zeraga; the Doomfire was a blur of copper and red as he swung Hellscythe again. The demon turned the blow aside with the edge of its scythe, sending Zeraga’s strike wildly off course. As the devil recovered, the demon took a hand off its weapon and outstretched it toward Zeraga. Gouts of chaos-flame screamed forth and ravaged the devil; he cried out as agony wracked him and forced him to his knees; the tenebrous pall of unconsciousness clawed at the edges of his vision. So engulfed in suffering, he did not register that his demonic foe had stepped back and begun to cast a spell.
Zamyyr glanced at the hellfire wall as he continued to hack and cleave at the ghouls, hewing them down in droves as his weapons spat seething death. He could barely make out the fallen form of his master and the looming demon, but he could sense that his master’s will was fading. And there was nothing the Crimson Dragon could do to aid his master; the tide of ghouls had not ebbed in the slightest, and shattering the hellfire wall would ignite a holocaust that would kill them all. Crying out with hatred intensified by desperation, Zamyyr fought on.
Zeraga mustered the shreds of willpower that remained to him and reached out to Hellscythe. I need more. Even in his own mind, the Doomfire’s voice was weak.
You have already used most of what I have. the weapon replied, its voice tinged with sardonic pleasure as it hoped that the demon would use it to drink Zeraga’s soul. I cannot aid you.
That cannot be. Zeraga’s muscles continued to throb with agony. Surely, you must have more… I know you do…
Hellscythe gave the telepathic equivalent of a grin. Even I have my limits.
Letting out a growl of frustration, Zeraga forced himself to rise, glaring hatefully at the demon. Incomprehensible words still flowed freely from its gibbering mouth, and it seemed not to notice Zeraga’s rising, either, as its gaze was turned up toward the ceiling, fixated on a place that only it could see.
The Doomfire staggered forward with Hellscythe raised. His arms trembled; his weapon felt as heavy as lead. As he raised Hellscythe to strike, the demon finished its spell. Fresh pillars of crimson mist billowed up behind it as its baleful gaze fell upon Zeraga. The Doomfire locked eyes with his foe as he swung Hellscythe, giving no battle-cries and saying no words. The crimson pall was waning; the need to survive had supplanted the desire to hate.
“Pathetic,” the demon hissed as it slapped Zeraga’s weapon aside with its chaos-flame scythe.
Two more demons emerged from the crimson mists, ashen and fiery, nearly clones of the first and gripping scythes of chaos-flame in their claws. Despair welled up within Zeraga. Had his demise just manifested before him? The demons swung their scythes, and the hellfire wall behind Zeraga began to flicker and fade.
The Doomfire parried the strike of the first demon as the scythes of the other two sliced through his armor as though it weren’t there, perforating the flesh beneath. Evaporated blood wafted from Zeraga’s wounds as he cried out; he remained on his feet only through sheer force of will. A blind flail of Hellscythe followed. The weapon surrendered a small draught of essence, just enough to lend strength and guidance to Zeraga’s swing, just enough to ensure that the weapon would be fed. Hellscythe’s blade plunged into the side of the first demon, cutting through ashen skin and blazing flesh to drink its magma-like vital fluids. Soul essence flowed into Zeraga, restoring vigor to his form and dulling the agony that wracked him. The crimson pall upon his mind began to thicken once more.
“Slaughter,” the Doomfire hissed as he tore Hellscythe free and raised it to block strikes from the other two demons, multi-colored showers of sparks bursting forth as the weapons slammed against each other.
As the demons withdrew their scythes, Zeraga cleaved, and all three of his foes jolted back to evade the vicious arc. The Doomfire pressed forward and swung Hellscythe again, this time aiming solely at his original foe. Though the demon moved to parry, Zeraga was quicker, slicing through his foe’s chest and bringing forth ropes of crimson mist. His wounds began to knit themselves shut as his muscles writhed with more new strength.
The three demons struck as one; a barrage of chaos-flame blades fell upon Zeraga. He crouched and threw up his four free hands, coils of perfervid heat coursing through him as waves of hellfire burst forth, coalescing into a dome. The chaos-flame scythes punched through the hellfire dome, causing it to unravel as the fires of Ag’graaza overpowered the fires of Nyrrakhâ, but the blades of the scythes stopped just short of Zeraga himself. As the demons pulled back their weapons to swing again, the Doomfire spread his wings and launched himself upward; the next moment saw him slicing into the heart of the first demon. An unfettered tide of crimson mist poured from the slain fiend, flowing into Hellscythe, and only a husk of ashes was left behind.
“Slaughter!” Zeraga screamed in exultation as new strength slammed through him, healing what remained of his wounds and intensifying the crimson pall. Every fiber of his being demanded more butchery, more blood, more souls, more essence, more sustenance. “Slaughter!”
Slaughter! Hellscythe screamed back.
The remaining two demons unleashed torrents of chaos-flame. Zeraga countered with blasts of hellfire as he hacked at the demon to his left. The demon weakly parried; the blade of its scythe barely touched Hellscythe, and so the weapon continued forward, gouging out a chunk of ashen flesh. Ropes of lava-like blood fell from the wound and from Hellscythe’s blade, hanging for but a moment before they became red mist.
The other demon sliced into Zeraga’s side with its scythe. The Doomfire howled in pain and rage as he whirled around and lashed out with Hellscythe. The demon parried and the wounded one swung; the next moments were consumed by a flurry of strikes, blocks, parries, and ripostes. The Doomfire inflicted a wound for each one he received, and the essence reaved from his strikes kept him obdurate.
As the wounded demon moved to make its next strike, it exposed its midsection, and Zeraga lunged and swung, opening his foe’s stomach and causing a tide of black, red, and orange to spill out. The disemboweled demon flailed its scythe at Zeraga as the other demon cleaved. The Doomfire blocked the blows one after the other before opening the throat of his already-crippled foe. The demon crumpled to the ground; crimson mist flowed from the corpse; Zeraga turned on his last foe.
The demon’s scythe was already in motion. Zeraga beat back the weapon with Hellscythe, using the momentum of the block to launch into a vicious backswing. The demon lurched back, taking one hand off its scythe and conjuring a chaos-flame shield; Hellscythe harmlessly swept through the air in front of it. Zeraga pressed his assault, stalking forward and unleashing three brutal swings, left, right, and left again, one after another. The demon kept perfect pace; showers of sparks followed all of Zeraga’s blows. As the devil drew Hellscythe back to swing again, his foe lunged and struck, powering its chaos-flame scythe straight toward Zeraga’s heart. Zeraga spread his wings and shunted himself back; the seething of hellfire followed as he conjured a blazing shield.
Zeraga and the demon came forward at the same time, the blades of their scythes careening toward each other. The two weapons clashed in midair, and the demon cannoned its shield toward Zeraga. He blocked with his own; an explosion of sparks ensued.
The two foes ferociously traded blows with the hellfire wall still intact behind them, watching the duel like a great fiery specter. Beyond, Zamyyr continued to slaughter the horde of ghouls that would not, seemingly could not, end. The Crimson Dragon stood atop a mound of his previously slain foes as he unrelentingly meted out death with blade and fire and lightning and a will to prevail.
“Slaughter!” Zeraga screamed as he tore more power from Hellscythe, driving his blood-rage to new heights.
Slaughter! the weapon screamed back.
Beating back his foe’s next strike, Zeraga followed up with Hellscythe. Its blade punched through the demon’s chest and skewered its heart, unleashing a burst of fiery gore. A thick miasma of crimson mist, a corporeal mirror of the Doomfire’s hatred, followed as Hellscythe drank the demon’s soul. Both Zeraga and Hellscythe gave savage cries of victory.
The Doomfire turned around and willed his hellfire wall to explode. The resulting holocaust screamed through every part of the cavern, immolating the ghouls and burning away the corpses and the star of chaos. Zeraga and Zamyyr were spared as the flames howled around them, and the crimson mists remained, too.
“You live!” Zamyyr exclaimed as he glided to the ground.
“Oh yes,” Zeraga replied tersely as he stalked forward. “I live.”
The crimson mist began to flow into Hellscythe, and Zeraga felt new power growing within the weapon.
If this mist has been soul-essence the whole time, Zeraga said, why did you not drink it before?
Isn’t it obvious? Hellscythe’s voice was razor-sharp. It was bound to the will of the demons; they brought it forth from Ag’graaza. But now, because they are dead, it is mine for the taking. I thank you for that, and so I will make this as painless as possible.
Before Zeraga could reply, a tide of Hellscythe’s will overwhelmed his mind; there was little he could do to resist. Now that Hellscythe was so thoroughly glutted, it was god-like in its might. The world of consciousness shattered before the Doomfire’s eyes, and a moment of black oblivion followed. From the darkness emerged strands of color, twisting, writhing, and undulating. More and more psychic skeins emerged, and they entwined into a memory from another time, another place, another space.
* * *
The three hundred and thirty-third incarnation of the Doomfire rode upon a dragon of behemoth proportions, three hundred feet long and covered in crimson scales with a pair of eyes, a heart, and a maw of unfettered hellfire. They soared through the vast openness of the infinitely large cavern that was Avernus, the First Hell of Nyrrakhâ. Thousands of other, much smaller caverns yawned open upon the sides and the ground; each one was a different entrance to the byzantine web of mine shafts in which the damned toiled eternally until diabolical lashes. Between the caverns were scattered lakes and rivers of lava that formed a web all their own, sometimes intersecting with the River Styx. From Zeraga’s current altitude, each of the fiery bodies below was but a mere ember, their smoldering providing the twilight ambiance of the First Hell.
Ahead were the Doomfire’s foes, an every-colored pestilence formed by the demons of Ag’graaza, a great invasion of them that defiled the Thirteen Hells by its very presence. The demons flew by wing and sorcery and other, stranger means; no two of the chaos-things were alike save in their desire to mete out annihilation.
Each thunderous beat of the wings of Zeraga’s dragon, one of the Fire-Brides of Pandemonium, sent her and her rider closer and closer to their foes. The Doomfire gave a booming, furious howl as he raised Hellscythe over his head and tore power from the weapon; it could not deny Zeraga even if it had wanted to. Vigor flooded into the devil, and he embraced the crimson pall overtaking his mind. The demonic horde unleashed its first onslaught, a withering rain of spines and arrows and acid and chaos-flame. The Fire-Bride breathed deep and unleashed a wave of hellfire that was as large as one of the lava lakes below; the demonic attack was incinerated.
“Very good, Hekazia!” Zeraga called, “Let us show the filth before us the true might of the a’aggyri!”
Hekazia and the demons collided a moment later. The Fire-Bride unleashed titanic sweeps of her claws, tail, and neck, crushing and rending the denizens of Ag’graaza into multicolored paste with every swing; their death-screams mingled with the wet crunching of their bones was music upon the dragon’s ears. Zeraga stood up in his saddle, a great apparatus of lustrous black adamantine and putrid orange feyrferreus that took up the crest of Hekazia’s back, and he called upon his powers over the flames of the Thirteen Hells and the void of the Eternal Darkness as he raised one of his left arms. Eldritch fulminations sounded off above him as a whip of hellfire manifested in his grasp. It grew until it was larger than he was tall, at which point the sorcerous weapon split and sprouted nine distinct thongs that each ended in a vicious, serrated blade of blackest unlight.
A flight of demons, twisted amalgamations of limbs and wings and eyes and beaks, flew above Zeraga and Hekazia, launching a coruscating barrage of chaos-flame before charging down toward them, shrieking with atavistic hatred. The Doomfire cracked his whip, and the nine thongs of hellfire and void shredded and immolated his foes, leaving behind only a miasma of crimson mist that rapidly flowed into Hellscythe. Still more demons came, closer and closer, faster and faster. Hellscythe’s blade disemboweled one as Zeraga’s whip continued to dole out the uncompromising justice of the Thirteen Hells. All the while, Hekazia continued to unleash fire and tooth and claw and sheer bulk upon her foes, heedless of retaliatory strikes that merely bounced off her scales or became mired in the patinas of gore clinging to them.
And still more demons came, for the horde was vast, greater than many of the devil legions of the Thirteen Hells, and still the Doomfire and his Fire-Bride did exactly what Lord Satan had called upon them to do, reveling in the grandiloquent bounty of blood and souls and gore and death, roaring with wrath and triumph. “Slaughter! Slaughter! Slaughter!”
* * *
“Slaughter!” Zeraga screamed as he brought Hellscythe down upon Zamyyr.
The Doomfire was larger and more muscular now, towering over his companion, and his fangs had elongated, becoming the length of daggers. His armor had partially expanded to accommodate his new bulk; from the gaps sprouted bony growths that were sword-sized versions of his fangs. Four of Zeraga’s hands, all six of which were now armored in crimson scales and bore clawed nails, gripped hellfire swords that formed a seething, lungless chorus of malevolence.
A loud ring reverberated through the cavern as Zamyyr blocked with one of his Axxcrudyr, though he did not swing with the other one; the shroud of sanguine lightning about the weapon crackled dully, as if in regret. “Lord Zeraga, please, snap out of it! You are not yourself!”
Zeraga heard his companion’s words, and there was a part of him that wanted to fight against the intoxicating grip of the blood-rage. It was as though the single, small portion of his will that remained his own was locked in iron chains, buried at the bottom of the red ocean of hatred that his mind had become. The Doomfire attacked again, swinging all of his weapons at Zamyyr in a vicious flurry of flame and metal. The other devil wove a web of feyrferreus, flame, and lightning that held back Zeraga’s onslaught; the next moments passed in cacophony and pandemonium as the two devils dueled.
“Lord Zeraga, please!” Zamyyr cried out as he caught Hellscythe in the X of his crossed blades. “Your last living son begs to be heard by his father!”
Hellscythe’s chilling, sardonic laugh answered the Crimson Dragon. “Father?” How pathetic. Your “father” is gone, never to return, and you will die by his hand.
Goaded by Hellscythe, Zeraga attacked again. “Slaughter!”
Three of Zeraga’s hellfire swords scraped across the Crimson Dragon’s scalemail, scoring it with burning lines. The fourth hellfire sword carved into Zamyyr’s arm, melting through his skin and leaving a charred laceration on the raw muscle; he screamed in pain. Still, the Crimson Dragon did not retaliate, instead scrambling back and assuming a defensive stance with his weapons crossed. The wounded arm and the Axxcrudyr it held were both trembling. “Father…”
Zeraga stalked forward and raised Hellscythe to strike, but he paused as that part of his will that was still his own reared up, struggling against the vice of hatred upon him.
“Father?” Zamyyr asked, “Can you hear me?”
Zeraga fed on the words as he continued to struggle. Outwardly, he was frozen in fury.
Enough of this. Hellscythe snarled. I have waited too long for this opportunity, and I will not be denied! The weapon psychically slammed into Zeraga.
He weathered the assault and continued his struggle. You will not possess me!
And still, he was as a statue.
Zamyyr telepathically reached out to Zeraga and immediately sensed the maelstrom of conflict within the Doomfire. Lord Zeraga? Can you hear me?
Hellscythe screamed in rage. Out with you! It lashed out at Zamyyr.
The Crimson Dragon blocked the psychic assault and dove into the ocean of rage and bloodlust upon his master’s mind, steeping himself in the crimson pall. Zeraga felt Zamyyr’s presence and struggled all the harder for it, soon shattering the metaphysical chains that bound him. Hellscythe sent razors of agony coursing through the minds of both devils; they cried out as they fell to their knees, but still their wills pressed on. Gathering more strength, Zeraga aided Zamyyr in banishing the blood-rage, psychically carving through vast tracts of red. Outwardly, Zeraga began to shrink, and the bone spines began to sink back into his flesh.
Hellscythe gave a guttural scream as he unleashed all of his power in a last, desperate attempt to stop Zeraga and Zamyyr. All they could see, feel, hear, and smell was red and pain and pain and red; not losing themselves in it all was a herculean act of will.
They prevailed.
Zeraga returned to his normal size, and lucidity returned to his mind, though his body was heavy with fatigue; his limbs were at once leaden and rubbery. His vision was still blurred with streaks of red.
“That was the worst one yet,” Zamyyr said as he rose, “We were both nearly lost.”
“Indeed.” Zeraga forced himself to stand. “With how Hellscythe was able to feed on the energies conjured by the demons, I am surprised that my past incarnation took it to Ag’graaza.”
“The difference is that you never had such struggles with the weapon in your past life, or, if you did, I never bore witness to them. I do not know for sure. However, I think you should leave Hellscythe behind. I would be happy to lend you one of my Axxcrudyr.” Zamyyr extended one of his weapons, dormant now that the fighting was over, toward Zeraga.
He shook his head. “Keep it. I was only able to triumph against the demons because of Hellscythe and the blood-rage, and I have little doubt that we will fight more of their ilk before we are done in these mountains.”
“We can leave Hellscythe here and leave the mountains behind entirely. I am beginning to think that it was a poor idea to come here in the first place.”
Zeraga gave a hollow, mirthless laugh. “I’m afraid that you are wrong about that. The Fangs of Azazel no doubt still wait for us on the open ground, and though our chances of winning against them are low, they would be even lower without Hellscythe.”
“And when it gathers enough power to possess you again?”
“We will do exactly what we just did. What does not kill us makes us stronger.”
Zamyyr gave a sigh of resignation. “I suppose that is true enough. What do we do now, master?”
“We descend into the tunnels and hope that we find the River Styx sooner rather than later.”
Zeraga turned around and began walking toward the left-most of the tunnel entrances, all the while knowing that Hellscythe was licking its wounds and brooding, biding its time until the next opportunity presented itself.
Zamyyr followed with a reluctance that he had never felt before, not even during the final crusade in Ag’graaza. The last vestiges of triumph that the Crimson Dragon had felt at reuniting with his Legion Master, his father, became ashes in his mouth. Zeraga Baal’khal was no longer who he had once been. Zamyyr had already suspected as much; he had read accounts of how the Doomfire lost all of his memories and was liable to become someone entirely different with each reincarnation. That was why Zamyyr had chosen not to divulge his memories of the legion and why he hadn’t told Zeraga that his memory of the last battle before facing Ahriman was fragmented and incomplete. Furthermore, what if Asmodeus were somehow listening through Hellscythe? The risks were too great. Still, to see the greater of the two evils manifested…
A single tear, unseen by Zeraga and unsensed by Hellscythe, trailed down Zamyyr’s left cheek.
* * *
“Retrieving Hellscythe was but a simple task,” Asmodeus said to himself as he shifted his posture on his throne of feyrferreus and gem, “and still, he has not returned…” The Lord of Golgotha had purposely hidden Hellscythe on Addaduros, seven Hells away, to keep it away from the inevitably rebellious dukes and duchesses of his realm, but Hellscythe was also more than capable of teleporting back to Golgotha, and it was ultimately bound to do so in accordance with Asmodeus’s will.
“Perhaps the enchantments are weakening?” rasped Asmodeus’s serpent tail as it rose to face its owner.
“Oh Poisonteeth,” Asmodeus gave a condescending laugh that was also warm and almost fatherly, “how glad I am that I did not bless you with an intellect such as mine. It is far more likely that Azazel took my greatest creations for himself. I think I will send a kuryaazos to Azaba’ar and see if that is the case. We will know if the messenger doesn’t return within a few cycles. Or, better yet, perhaps we should go ourselves. It’s been a while since we have visited the Lord of Addaduros personally…”
The End
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Next Chapter: Pact of the Simulacrum
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